TED (CONT’D)
There you go. It’s good to see that all those years on the force have put some sense into you—
RAIMI suddenly lifts his gun and shoots TED in the shoulder, sending him to the ground. RAIMI jumps on TED and pummels his face over and over.
RAIMI
You asshole. You stole my life. You murdered my wife! I’m not going to take you in. We’re going to end this right now!
TED grabs RAIMI’S fist and throws him off. An epic fight ensues. They get thrown around, things break. At one point, RAIMI puts his finger in TED’S bullet wound and blood spurts out. The fight ends on the bed, on top of dead SISSY. TED eventually traps RAIMI under him, gets control of the gun and shoots RAIMI in the shoulder.
TED
You can’t win. You could’ve stopped this. I gave you the chance. Besides this is secretly what you wanted anyway.
RAIMI
What are you talking about?
TED
C’mon, brother. This is the case that you wanted to be remembered for, right? All those years, serving the people, and what have you got to show for it? Nothing. You wanted to go out with a bang.
RAIMI
You’re sick. You think I would’ve let you kill all those people for a little recognition?
TED
Like I said before, I don’t think you and I are very different in the long run. You just won’t admit it—you can’t handle the fact that you take a little pleasure when you put a bullet in a bad guy. I mean, that’s sick: a cop who takes pleasure in killing. What would your wife think? Well, I guess she wouldn’t think much now (he nods to the body). So that’s why you’re not going to kill me. That’s why you need me. (Beat) And that’s why you created me.
RAIMI
(Stops struggling to break free) What did you say?
TED
C’mon, do you think Ted Raimi really exists? Sounds pretty convenient, doesn’t it? The “twin brother,” a psycho brother to the straight-laced cop. It’s all pretty clever if you ask me.
RAIMI
Who are you?
TED
I’m you Sammy-boy. I thought you knew that.
RAIMI
How?
TED
It’s really easy if you think about it. Simple even: you were bored. You spent countless, thankless years on the force and you needed some action. What better way to get your kicks than by creating an evil twin. You could kill by night and hunt me by day. When you’re on both sides of the law you can’t lose! What makes it better is that people were finally giving you the attention that you deserved. “Sam Raimi: Star Cop!” I guess it does have a nice ring to it. Even your old lady was giving us more attention. Do you remember the last time she treated you so nice?
RAIMI
(Realization sinking in) No. …
TED
But pretty soon, she found out. So she had to go.
Cut to a shot of RAIMI on the bed next his dead wife. TED is gone. Cut back to TED back on top of RAIMI.
RAIMI
(Looks over at his dead wife) No, you did this!
TED
No. We did this!
RAIMI breaks down and cries again.
RAIMI
(Between sobs) But … Crony … he saw you.
TED
No, he saw your twin. There were a lot of mirrors in that place, brother. Besides, he deserved it anyway. He was an idiot.
RAIMI
But … my wife. I loved her (he sounds very unsure when he says this).
TED
We did. We did love her. But sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love. At least we had a fun time doing it.
TED slowly gets off of RAIMI and they both sit on the bed in silence. RAIMI runs his fingers through his dead wife’s hair. TED whistles. Finally, RAIMI breaks the silence.
RAIMI
So, what do we do now?
TED
We called for back up.
RAIMI
(Very distant) Yes … they should be here pretty soon.
TED
This can still be a happy ending. If you kill me, you can be the Hero Cop who saved the day! If you don’t stop me, I’ll just keep killing. By killing me, you can save us both.
RAIMI
(Obviously delusional) Tell me what to do.
TED
It’s in your hands.
RAIMI looks down to see that he’s holding his revolver. Police sirens ring from outside and a voice from downstairs calls for RAIMI.
TED (Cont’d)
We need to hurry. Point it right here. (He points to the center of his head, right between his eyes).
RAIMI, zombie-like, lifts the gun and aims.
CUT TO: Downstairs. A group of cautious police search with their guns drawn.
Sound effect: BAM!
A gunshot rings throughout the house. They all run up the stairs to the bedroom where they see dead RAIMI with a bullet-wound in his head, laid out next to his bashed-up wife. Some of the officers can’t look, others get sick.
POLICE OFFICER
Detective Raimi?
CUT TO: Black for five seconds
TITLE: The End.
Paper Ghosts
The finished script sits on the dresser near my bed.
My camera rests on top of the script.
I run fingers through my hair and pace the length of my room. Those two items on my dresser are what my brother has become. The thought feels like golf balls in my throat. I sit to calm down, but can’t focus for very long. Maybe something outside is watching me. I get up to look out the window and see no one. I close the blinds anyway. I stand above the dresser and look down at the camera guarding the script. I have trouble remembering if the camera’s position was my doing or not.
In the muted light of my basement room, I reach down to steal the script from the video camera.
I slide one finger carefully under the paper and recognize the weight of our movie. It feels good and official. I hesitate, let the story travel through the pages into my fingers, up my arm and into my brain, where it dominates the ghosts and tits that live there. With my other hand, I pull the stack of papers out from under the camera and set the machine back on the dresser. I return to the bed to flip through our script. There are little notes and corrections, highlighted with non-sequitur pictures of bats and gravestones. Most of the comments say nice or could use more and I wrack my brain trying to remember what more we needed. I flip through more pages.
I hear a sound from my dresser—a moving sound. I keep the video camera in my peripheral.
Every time I reread the script, I always stop before the end, but now I’m compelled to keep going. My heart races as I inch toward the final showdown between Detective Raimi and Ted. I turn the pages, mouthing the words. Paragraphs and dialogue mix together, becoming one big blob on white. I can’t stop. I brush some wetness off my cheek.
Again, I hear movement.
I stand, still holding the movie script in my hand. The papers tremble. I face the dresser, and the terror that lies on it. I feel foolish for believing that I could ever feel safe again.
The camera has turned around to face me. I see the silver ring around the lens turning, manually fixing the focus on me. Watching me. It makes a mechanical whirring noise and the red recording light flares up. It wants to document this moment. I stare deep into the black lens and see my brother
“Fuck you,” I say and rip the script to tiny pieces, letting the little white memories of my brother flutter to the floor. Tiny, paper ghosts.
Before I slam the door shut behind me, I hear the recording buzz stop and then silence.
End of tape.
The Trunk
I don’t really sleep anymore. When I do, I have nightmares about Brian with black eyes, missing fingers, and teeth that appear longer and sharper with each consecutive dream. I spend the nights in his bed, under the co
vers, and breathe through a small opening in the blanket. I often wish for a snorkel. I keep the lights on. Sometimes I hear scratching through the wall. It comes from my own bedroom.
Every time I have to piss feels like a mission of survival. There’s the leap from the bed to the floor to dodge whatever’s under the bed. Then the dark of the bathroom, and the split second it takes to wrap my arm around the doorframe to turn on the light. That second, reaching into the void, could cost me an arm. I’m sure of it.
I take three breaths and make the leap. I stop at the foot of the stairs. There’s a light on in the family room.
Dad sits in front of the TV. The TV is off.
A trunk sits between the two-foot rests. It looks like he’s praying over it.
“Jason. You’re up. Come here. I want to show you something.”
I forget about pissing. The pressure on my bladder is replaced by a sour stirring in my stomach. My dad wears an open bathrobe; his once-powerful chest has shrunk into a concave cup holder. His belly is large and distended. I can’t remember the last time I saw him without a shirt, but the transformation seems sudden—the effect of an extended illness. I stand frozen in the doorway to the stairwell and clutch the frame, try to sink my nails in it.
“Come here.” It doesn’t sound like a request anymore. He waves me over like he’s trying to catch my scent. Trying to determine my taste. My hand slides off the frame. “That’s my boy!” he shouts. He pats the space next to him and bounces on the cushion. A bottle at his feet tips over. Glass against hardwood.
I sink in with him.
He knocks on the trunk in front of us. The wood is painted dark green; it’s adorned with faux-leather straps. Two tarnished latches keep the trunk sealed. The thing smells like mold.
“You and that Ally girl are pretty close, huh?”
“Dad.” I feel my cheeks burn.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he says. He opens another beer. Foam spills over and drips down his knuckles. He licks them clean. “She’s not bad.” He tightens his lips into an approving line. “Don’t really know her parents, but they seem like good people.” He pulls another beer from between the couch cushions and wrenches the cap off. “Here. Take this.”
I hold the sweaty bottle out in front of me. My elbow makes a right angle.
“Go on,” he says. “It’s yours. It’s okay.” He takes a swig from his beer and motions for me to do the same. The bitterness makes me retch. I hold the liquid in my mouth until it gets warm and then swallow. It has a faint taste of rotten bananas.
“Good, huh?”
I nod.
“Let’s chug.” He sees my hesitation. “All you do is open your throat.” He strokes the stubble on his neck—it almost connects with the chest hair splayed out of his yellowed undershirt collar. I place the bottle to my lips. “Ready?”
He tips his beer back and a series of air bubbles float to the top of the inverted bottle. I do the same. I throw my head straight back and the beer falls down my esophagus without touching my tongue. After three gulps, I move to take a breath. Dad puts his fingers under the bottle so I can’t put it down.
“Almost there,” he says. “Chug. Chug. Chug.”
My stomach puts an embargo on liquid entering. It tightens. Beer fills my throat, spills over into my windpipe. The bitter liquid flows out of my nose. Dad takes his hand away and pats my back while I sputter.
“Nice work.”
My head becomes light, my vision blurs. A dumb smile spreads across my face. Dad beams.
“Now!” He says it like he’s announcing medieval royalty, all hands in the air. He does a drumbeat on the trunk with his palms. “For the main attraction.” He flips the latches on the trunk open and flings the top like he’s throwing a barrel over his head.
Inside, there are rows and rows of black VHS tapes.
“My stash,” he says.
I bend over the cartridges. They all have a white strip displaying my dad’s handwriting: Debbie Does Duluth, Bang Plane, Penetrating Gazes, Slippery When Wet (vols. I-V), The Return of Debbie. So many tapes with names that seem bootlegged from a dream on the verge of becoming a nightmare.
There’s a tape with my parents’ names on it.
In the corner, there’s one tape without my dad’s penmanship: King Kong Video’s copy of The Lost Boys. I pull it out, and the row topples slightly, like dominoes.
“How long have you had this?”
He doesn’t look at the tape. “I haven’t opened this thing in years.” He leans in close and whispers: “Vintage. They don’t make them like this anymore” The tape feels hot in my hand. I drop it. “Go ahead, pick one out. They’re all pretty good.”
“Dad, I’m not really in the mood. I’m kind of dizzy.” It’s not a lie.
“Don’t be silly.” He traces the length of each row; his finger bounces over the slight ridge of each tape. “Eeny meeny miny moe.” He stops on Back Ally and claws it out from the rest. He taps the title strip and laughs. “Get it?”
Everything separates into twos. I close my eyes to stop the spinning. When I open them, Dad is at the TV, fidgeting with our old VCR. A horrible whirring sound leaks out of the machine. Static rolls down the screen. The picture kicks in: an office setting, blurred by years of analog deterioration. The colors jump out of their boundaries, making everything look like it’s on fire.
A woman sits in the office, writing with a pencil on a single sheet of paper. The set design is just a clock and a globe. A door opens and a handsome, rugged deliveryman enters, hoisting a five-gallon jug of water on his shoulder.
“Where do you want it?” the deliveryman asks.
“Anywhere you can put it,” the woman says.
“Great dialog!” My dad cracks up. “Back when they used to have stories.”
The woman navigates the table separating them. She takes off her top.
“Au natural,” says Dad.
A line of static breaks the picture. For a second, I swear I see Ally and Brian in the park. The porn floods back in.
The woman’s mascara runs down her cheeks. The man’s grunting sounds like a gorilla. I close my eyes and listen. The grunting speeds up, slows down, sounds submerged underwater. The joy of analog.
I open my eyes and she’s bent over the desk. They’re both so hairy.
Again, the tape cuts out. Brian’s black eyes fill the screen. The analog screams. I put my hands over my ears.
Back Ally returns. It’s a close-up. My eyes cross involuntarily, pinks swirl together. It looks like gore. My stomach heaves the beer.
I spray vomit all over my dad’s tape collection.
“Oh. Hey!” My dad picks me up under the arms and rushes me into the bathroom where I throw up the rest of my beer. “I’m sorry, bud. Just let it all out.” He pats me on the back. “Didn’t know you were such a lightweight”—he chuckles—“You’ll get a taste for it.”
I stand, and he shakes my hand. He congratulates me on my new manhood.
Long Distance Call
Mom sounds tired when she picks up the phone. I’ve forgotten about the time difference.
“Jason?” The loud, scratching sound of her face against the receiver before her voice fades in: the tail end of a yawn. “What time is it?”
“I’m sorry Mom. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, no, honey. It’s okay. How are things?”
“They’re all right.” She doesn’t sound happy, but she sounds relaxed. At ease. Her distant tone of voice is gone. For the first time since Brian disappeared, she sounds alert.
“Why are you calling, Jason?”
“When are you coming home?”
“In a few weeks, hun. A few weeks.”
“Mom?”
“What is it?”
“Dad’s acting weird.”
“I know. It’s okay. He’s been going through hard times.” She pauses. “It’s been hard for everybody.”
“Jason, are you crying?”
“No.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t talk. She listens to me blubber. My lip flaps with each inhale. I squeeze hot tears out of my eyes.
“Hey, Mom?” I wipe my nose with the entire length of my arm. She waits.
“Yes?”
“Why are grown-ups so weird?”
“I don’t know, Jason. We just are.”
Brock: The Revenge
I’m facing a wall of meat.
Outside, lightning breaks the sky. The thunderstorm makes the lights flicker. Weary, panicked parents look beat-up in their ponchos, their hair plastered. The grocery store is full of puddles.
Thunder crashes, overpowering the music playing through the store’s speaker system. I flinch.
The sight of the meat reminds me of the inside of a rotting zombie. No reds, only grays and whites. A lady piles her arms full of steaks. The rain has made her look water-logged and translucent, or how I imagine floating corpses look. She walks with tiny footsteps to keep her balance on the wet floor, but a loud squeak signals her fall. She loses the steaks to a brown slick of water.
Hamburger is on sale. Out of all the meats, it’s the one that looks the least processed, the most raw. The most likely to excite primordial hunting instincts in dangerous creatures.
I buy two plastic-covered trays of the bargain meat.
Horror Business Page 10
